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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25867135">all those shadows there, filled up with doubt</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamp_stamp/pseuds/vamp_stamp'>vamp_stamp</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV), Southern Vampire Mysteries - Charlaine Harris, True Blood (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Mind Reading, Shapeshifting, Sort Of, This isn't really a crossover, Vampires, and then scrambling the plot like an egg, it’s pretty canon typical for both shows though, so much as setting hannibal in true blood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:01:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,305</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25867135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamp_stamp/pseuds/vamp_stamp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Will never talks about how he knows things— his dad knows well enough that Will’s brain is scrambled, he doesn’t need any reminders. Will leaves out Jay and Rosa— just tells him about the fucking stairs, the safe, the bedside table, and the door frame cracking out into Will’s arm. At the end, his dad turns away from the stove and stands there staring at Will for a minute.</p>
<p>'You ran home with that thing in your arm?' His dad asks, and Will nods absentmindedly. </p>
<p>'Yeah, the snakes did a couple takes. Guess that’s bad manners.'"</p>
<p>Will Graham is crazy. Everyone in town knows that-- sure, the people down at the bar seem to like him all right, but even they can't explain how he just knows things he shouldn't. Then Mr. Graham, the surly old boat-hand, gets arrested on a charge of murder, and everyone knows he's guilty. Everyone, that is, except Will Graham.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dr. Frederick Chilton/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the house on the hill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>if you've never seen true blood (which you should, of course, watch on hbo if you're going to watch it. you definitely should NOT watch it on 123movies, because that's illegal. even though they do have every season, you most definitely should not watch it there,) here's a quick summary:</p>
<p>sookie stackhouse is a small-town waitress from northern, rural louisiana. she works at the local bar and grill, and lives with her elderly grandmother, adele, who raised her after her parents died. her life is pretty normal, and pretty boring-- all except for one thing: sookie can read minds. one day at work, three years after the "great revelation," (when vampires all over the world announced their existence,) a newcomer named bill compton comes into the bar, and sookie's life changes forever.</p>
<p>that's all you really need to know to read this fic, bc i am going to scramble the plot like an egg. if you've seen true blood (or, god forbid, read all 13 of the svm books, like i did,) and haven't seen hannibal: 1) wow. send me a dm on tumblr (werewolfelectronica) bc i need to talk to you. 2) you will get spoilers for hannibal from this fic so DON'T look that up on  123 movies either. go watch it legally on peacock.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The Chilton house has stood abandoned for forty years— it had been a fine house in its day, if the church gossip was to be believed, but neglect and the wet heat of Bon Temps hadn’t done it any favors. Thick vines had wrapped themselves around the outer columns and kept climbing, trying to cover the whole house in greenery. It had succeeded on the upper deck. The plants’ weight had eventually rotted out the wooden boards— the ones that were left hung precariously in the vine loops. Occasionally, they smacked against the wood frame of the front door and made a ‘thump’ noise that made the hair on the back of Will’s neck stand up. There was no lawn left to speak of, and trees had started growing in the stone path that led up to the house. The Chilton place had become a popular spot for dares— mostly the local frat guys challenging each other to spend the night there. Staring up at the mold patterns, alone in the old mausoleum, they always chose to run back to their friends, shamefaced.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will didn’t have that option— his dad expected him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>find</span>
  </em>
  <span> something worth a lot of cash, and if Will came back empty-handed, there wouldn’t be money for dinner, much less the rent that was due in two weeks. The recession had hit them hard— they’d blown right through Will’s savings, and his boss was just keeping the bar above water— no room in that budget for raises. His dad still did pretty good business fixing engines, but with how the fishermen talked, that might be done soon, too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Chilton house looked like a lost ruin, full of glittering treasure when the sun glimmered through the remaining windows. They could see it, up the hill from their little rental house, taunting them— or maybe just taunting his father. Will liked how it filled out the skyline— it was something to look at, at least. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d gone to the local hardware store that morning. He used the last twenty in his wallet to buy a painter’s mask, two pairs of thick plastic gloves, and a baseball bat— in case anything was living in there. Will couldn’t imagine there was— there were people in and out basically every weekend— but he didn’t want to get caught off guard by a pissed off raccoon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing on the rickety porch, Will’s more afraid of fungal pneumonia than he is of getting bitten by something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The house is old—antebellum old— and everything in it creaks like stiff bones: the steps, the porch, the windows, even the walls. Every step makes the hair on the back of Will’s neck stand straight up, but he shakes it off as best he can. There’s nothing a ghost could do to him that the economy couldn’t do better. Light, at least, can chase away shadows—that never works with the landlord. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will knocks on the door before he opens it, just in case. No one answers, obviously— just more creaking. He lets himself in and stands in the doorway, blinking away spots. It’s so dark inside that for a minute, all he can see are the strips of light shining in from the doorway, casting his shadow across the floor. He shuts the door behind him, and the door rattles a little— he has to wonder how many weeks that door has left. When he turns back, he has to wonder how many weeks the </span>
  <em>
    <span>house</span>
  </em>
  <span> has left. Even before the last owners died, it looks like no one had taken care of the place— the wood finishings are rotting right off the walls. The wallpaper’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone</span>
  </em>
  <span>—eaten up by mold and a little bit of moss. The staircase doesn’t look like it’ll hold weight— Will could snap off the whole banister with a little push. The room on his right, at least, doesn’t need mountain climbing gear to get to. From the looks of the place, all the canceled sleepovers happened there—there are at least ten beer cans scattered over the floor, and there are about five or six bottles on the coffee table. The parlor furniture is all done up in velvet, like no one’s ever remodeled the place— and closer inspection of the wall lamps makes him think that’s more or less true. It’s easy, then, for Will to do what he came there to do. He doesn’t trust the furniture, so he kneels on the floor, shuts his eyes, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>lives</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the shadows left all over the house. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of course, the closest memories come from the week and a half old ghost of a frat boy, tripping over his own feet to get out when the upstairs landing creaked. He’s easy to see and easier to leave behind—he hadn’t left anything of himself in the house. Then, further back, there’s an old man— sat on the velvet loveseat, his hand hovering over an old, old photograph. He’ll never touch it— he can’t bring himself to endanger it that way. He has such </span>
  <em>
    <span>longing,</span>
  </em>
  <span> for ancestors who’ll love and understand him. It’s an uncomfortably familiar feeling for Will. He looks closer at the photo, leans down until his nose nearly touches the paper— it’s old, but not quite as old as the house. Maybe 1870, maybe 1890— Will isn’t up on his fashion history. The old man’s thoughts are so </span>
  <em>
    <span>noisy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he wonders for a minute if</span>
  <em>
    <span> Will</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s repeating all of them out loud. The old man’s name is— was— Jay Chilton. Jay was short for José, a swap his brother had made at age 4. That’s a black hole of memories that hurts to even look at— something had happened to little Miguel. Something bad. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But tragedy isn’t what Will’s looking for— he’s got enough of that to go around, thank you </span>
  <em>
    <span>very much</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He gets up from the couch, dusts off Jay’s knees, and wanders back into the entryway. He climbs up the stairs, holding onto the banister (not yet rotted through) and dodders into Jay’s bedroom. Jay starts getting ready for bed, but Will forces his eyes up— to the safe in the wall. The picture Jay had been so careful with usually hangs over it— there was a tear in the frame, so he’d taken it down. Will has to strain against Jay’s mind to find the combination— </span>
  <em>
    <span>07 92 87 23.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He shakes himself, hard, once, twice, three times, and comes gasping up for air, shaking and shivering, in Jay’s bedroom. Will has no idea how he got up the stairs— or if he’s gonna be able to get down again— but that’s a worry for future Will. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The picture’s hanging on the wall, and Will’s very careful with it— as careful as he can be, anyway. He considers taking it with him— but what the hell would he do with it? He shakes his head and sets the portrait on the bed. The whole room is disgusting— there’s mold growing on the mattress, and moths have eaten the curtains all the way up to the rods. There are sad little scraps of discolored fabric hanging off the poles— and it isn’t like you can see out the window anyway. It’s totally covered in dirt and other things Will doesn’t want to look at too closely. He has enough shit in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The safe is old fashioned, but not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> old fashioned—it was probably made in the thirties, if Will had to guess. The dial creaks like everything else in the house— but at least it isn’t rusted over. He does have to force it on the last number, and the noise the tumblers make when they click makes shivers run all down Will’s back. It’s the sort of noise teeth make when they clack together too hard— something worse than nails on a chalkboard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The inside of the safe is too dark to see. It occurs to Will that it might’ve been better if he’d spent the money on a flashlight, rather than the baseball bat— but it’s too late to do anything about it. He’d left the baseball bat in the parlor anyhow. Will can’t help but think of all the people he’s seen get their hands ripped off in India Jones movies— stupid, yeah, but enough to make him really think twice about putting his hand in a dark hole in the wall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the inside, there’s… paper. Just paper. Will pulls it out, but with the window blacked out, he can’t read it any better in the “light.” He has to hope it’s something worth enough to climb up the stairs for— he rolls it up and sticks it in his back pocket. He also has to hope it won’t crumble away to dust before he reads it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bedside tables don’t seem very promising— all Will can find in the left one is a few quarters— until he stubs his thumb on a sharp edge along the bottom of the right one’s drawer. Even with gloves, he has to double-check he didn’t cut himself— and then he has to pry out the false bottom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Should have bought a crowbar too,” he mutters to himself, and his voice sounds wrong. Somehow too loud and too quiet— he snaps his jaw shut with a ‘clack.’ He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s stupid to worry about ghosts again— Will isn’t just tomb-robbing, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>memory-robbing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and there’s nothing he can do to take it back now. Still, he can’t help checking over his shoulder before he opens the false bottom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows before he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> that the bracelet sitting there is real. Even through however many years worth of dust, cobwebs, and who knows what else, </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>diamonds don’t lose their sparkle. Will still checks— he tries to reach back into Jay’s head, but instead, he gets… someone else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s older than Will— older than Jay, too, although not in her memories. In her memories, she’s twenty, then twenty-five, then thirty. Rosa was from somewhere drier and sunnier than Louisiana— an island. Will doesn’t know enough about Spanish history to know it by name, and Rosa doesn’t chime in. Her memories of it are fuzzy, he realizes— her family emigrated. There are more fuzzy memories of a ship— then a small town with smiling faces. He doesn’t recognize that either, but it’s clearly in Louisiana— somewhere further east. Rosa marries the eldest Chilton son, Frederick. Will would call him ‘surprisingly handsome,’ except for his eyes. Something about the way he looks at him— at Rosa— makes Will’s skin crawl. Frederick gives her the bracelet at their wedding— the look never leaves. He brags about being able to afford it at the wedding party, while Rosa flashes the diamonds at friends green with envy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will tugs himself up and out of Rosa’s head before he sees any more. There’s no box for the bracelet, so he puts it in his pocket and hopes like hell that it’s sturdier than it looks. He doesn’t waste any time with the closet— if nothing has died in it, Will would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>shocked</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The upstairs hallway is just as wrecked as the rest of the house, and Will </span>
  <em>
    <span>jumps </span>
  </em>
  <span>when one of the floorboards creaks louder than it should. He tries not to hurry, to take his time and step carefully. Still, Will’s not an idiot, contrary to popular belief— hanging around standing on rotten wood sounds </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretty fucking stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span> to him. Each step he takes, his imagination helpfully provides Will with a dizzy daydream on how he’ll make it to the stair landing and crash through to the bottom. Like some kind of backwoods apocalypse cask of amontillado. He wants to vault over the landing by the time he gets there, but instead, he just creeps along, one foot after the other, until he’s nearly hyperventilating on the ground floor. Will gets a sudden, insane urge to kiss the floor, which tells him it’s time to get the hell out of dodge. He picks up his bat from the parlor and goes out the way he came. When the door sticks, his heart stops. Will wriggles and yanks at it until finally, the metal bolt rips straight through the rotten wood— a big piece of it goes into Will’s arm. He’s so startled he shouts, “Fuck!” before he remembers that he may or may not be trespassing, and there could be someone else there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t bother trying to fix the door— just whips his head around to see if there’s anyone who might have heard him. There’s no one there that Will can see, so he puts the bat over his shoulder, and takes off running, his other arm pressed close to his shirt. He’s pretty sure it won’t start bleeding until he takes it out, but leaving a blood trail back to his house would be fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The run back to Will’s house is a hard mile down to the water. There’s a small forest in between, complete with snakes that give Will the long, </span>
  <em>
    <span>long</span>
  </em>
  <span> look, before deciding the bat he’s hefting makes him a fellow predator. Or, prey that’s too hard to catch. It’s hard to tell with snakes— mammals, Will can predict well enough to get along with, but reptiles are a little too far out, even for Will’s chameleon brain. He gives them a nice wide berth because he just doesn’t have it in him to beat off an anaconda— not after the day Will’s had. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The run takes him a good twenty minutes— Will’s in pretty good shape, he’d like to say, but he’d need a machete to get through the woods any faster. He manages to keep any other wood, brambles or needles out, and all of his blood in, so Will calls that a win, and slides down the dirt hill on his ass. It deposits him in the back yard, filthy and with a small stake in his arm, but mostly safe. He can hear his dad working away inside, so after a good minute of sitting there feeling sorry for himself, he hauls his ass inside.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘M home!” Will calls out to him, and the gentle clanging noises cut off. A minute later, his dad comes through the kitchen, wiping the grease off his hands with a black rag.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can wash those, you know,” Will tells him, and his dad barks out a laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good thing that haunted house ain’t knock the smart mouth off of you. You find anything?” He asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will bends his arm out at the elbow, so his dad can see the wood chunk. His old man goes a little pale, then goes back into the engine room. He comes out again with the first aid kit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gotta get that out before infection sets in— you get anything other than 1,000 splinters, or did I just send you into that death trap for nothin’?” First, he gets up and washes his hands in the kitchen sink— then sits down at the table and starts setting out the iodine, needles, and thread. Will pulls the paper out of his back pocket, and the bracelet out of the front one— then sets them on the table next to the kit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You tell me,” Will says, and slides into the chair opposite his dad. Now that he’s done with the whole thing, his legs feel like jelly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His dad wolf-whistles, low and slow, before opening his hand and gesturing at Will’s arm. Will leans forward and puts his wrist as close to his dad as he can. Will takes a deep breath, and wraps his other hand around the table leg to brace himself— then his old man pulls the wood out. It hurts like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bitch</span>
  </em>
  <span>— Will had been so startled, he’d barely felt it going in, and it had mostly felt numb on the way down, he’d been so hopped up on adrenaline. Now that his brain knows he’s safe, Will can feel everything— every nerve, every inch of skin on fire from the wood burn. His dad has the iodine ready, and he washes the whole thing out three or four times, before he pins Will’s arm down with one hand, and picks up a piece of gauze soaked in iodine in the other. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I gotta get the splinters out, Willy,” he says, and it looks like it hurts him more than it does Will, so he nods at his dad, and grips the table leg harder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will’s gotten stitches before— his dad’s a boat mechanic, he grew up playing with fish hooks and metal scraps. But he’s never had splinters in an open wound, and Will wonders for a minute if it might be better to just slam his head into the table and lose consciousness while they come out. The big piece of wood coming out had hurt like a bitch, but Will’s got no words for how it feels when his dad scrapes out the first splinter— except he really wants some painkillers. Or at least 5 or 6 shots. He starts crying when the second one comes out, big, fat, hot tears that soak the collar of his shirt. Will doesn’t make a sound, though— through the pain, he can feel his dad’s emotions better than his, and he can’t torture him for trying to help. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Getting everything out of the wound doesn’t take long, but it feels like forever from Will’s side of the table— afterward, his dad gets up and pours him a good slug of whiskey. Will knocks it back, then two more afterward. It takes the screaming edge off of the pain, but Will doesn’t turn down another one when his dad offers it, or the one after that. In fact, he drinks until he feels a little floaty— kinda removed from the whole thing. Will loosens his death grip on the table after that and flexes his fingers to feel the blood flow back. He’s pretty sure that’s supposed to hurt too, but by that point, all he feels is tired. He puts his uninjured arm on the table, crooks it, and uses it as a pillow while his dad starts sewing up Will’s arm. He can sort of feel that, something sharp and dull at the same time, but he just presses his eyes closed tighter. When it’s done, his dad ruffles his hair, and asks him, “Y’wanna look it over, or you trust your old man?”</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span> It takes Will a minute to get his head off of his arm, but he can turn the injured arm over fine. The stitches are nice and clean— probably not as tight as a doctor might make them, but his dad’s had a lot of practice over the years. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Looks good,” Will tells him and winces a little when he hears the slur in his voice. “Sorry, can’t hold my liquor today.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His dad laughs, albeit a little sadly, and stands up from the table. “I’ll make dinner tonight. You just tell me how it went.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will never talks about </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> he knows things— his dad knows well enough that Will’s brain is scrambled, he doesn’t need any reminders. Will leaves out Jay and Rosa— just tells him about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> stairs, the safe, the bedside table, and the door frame cracking out into Will’s arm. At the end, his dad turns away from the stove and stands there staring at Will for a minute.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You ran home with that thing in your arm?” His dad asks, and Will nods absentmindedly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, the snakes did a couple takes. Guess that’s bad manners,” Will says, and finally unrolls the paper. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>ancient</span>
  </em>
  <span>— three hundred years if it’s a day. The ink hasn’t faded at all, which is really something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“God hemp paper,” his dad muses. “What’s it say?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will skims through— it’s plain English, albeit plain English as the colonists wrote it. “This is the deed to the Chilton house— well, the land, at least.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His dad whistles again— “You think we could pass that off as somethin’ we found?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Will has to wonder— no one’s come to claim the Chilton house, but repairing it’s probably impossible. He tells his dad that, and his dad turns back to the stove, deep in thought. “Suppose we sold it to someone— they could show up as a long lost relative, demolish the house and sell the land outright. Couldn’t be too hard to find someone who wants it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something </span>
  <em>
    <span>pangs</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Will’s chest at that, but there’s no use being sentimental— the place is a relic, and it sticks out like a sore thumb in modern Bon Temps. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Will </span>
  </em>
  <span>fits in better. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. what a way to make a livin'</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Will believes in ghosts more than the next person— he has no idea why he knows what people will do, no idea why his brain works the way it does. Spirit magic is insane, sure, but in this case, seeing ghosts makes a pretty convincing argument for believing in ghosts. So sure, he’ll buy that Rosa’s spirit sent him this dream. "</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They finish eating dinner, and then Will stumbles off to take a shower. In better days, they’d splurged and bought a whole bunch of big waterproof bandaids— he puts one on and tries to avoid pressing on the stitches, but he still can’t feel a thing, so what does it matter? He strips, then turns back in forth in front of the mirror to check himself for ticks. He doesn’t find any, but he does find a bruise on his hip that he doesn’t remember getting— it’s not too dark, it looks like Will just bumped something, but he’s done it before, and it scares the shit out of him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will turns away from his reflection and turns the knob to the right side, as far as it’ll go, for the coldest water he can get. He gets in and moans, belatedly thinking of his dad, and any number of things that might’ve conveyed to him. Will isn’t getting out of the shower for any reason, though, so if his old man worries, he can come ask Will if he’s alright. His back is so hot— it feels like he got burned, even with a shirt on. That feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>unnecessary</span>
  </em>
  <span>, frankly, and Will stands there mad as hell at the universe before the shower stops for a second and then splashes him right in the face when he looks up. Then he sits on the floor and laughs at himself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once he’s done acting like a drunken fool, he stands up— Will may wobble a little, but he stays upright— and grabs for the towel rack. Will stumbles over the lip of the tub but manages to get both feet on the floor. He ties the towel around his waist, then grabs another to go over his shoulders, before he heads to bed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s got a “vintage” mattress— he’s tried to plump it up over the years with cloth mattress toppers (three from Walmart, one from Sears after Bev shared her employee discount with him,) but it’s mediocre on its best day. Will flops into it bonelessly, and it feels like the best mattress in the world. Who knew that disgusting, moldy old mansions were all it took to make his furniture comfortable? </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sleep is on him immediately, towels and all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will’s never had a night of dreamless sleep in his life— not even as a kid. He can still remember the nightmare where he </span>
  <em>
    <span>screamed</span>
  </em>
  <span> his throat bloody, and woke his dad up with real screaming, thinking he was being murdered. This is pretty tame, as dreams go— the house was worse. Will’s walking up the stairs of the Chilton house in this dream, and his legs feel weak, the way they had when he’d gone </span>
  <em>
    <span>down</span>
  </em>
  <span> the real stairs— but the wood is perfect, brand new. He’s Rosa again, with the bracelet flashing on her wrist, big and bold. Her knees are wobbly— her mother just pulled her aside and told her about “laying with a man.” It had involved a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot</span>
  </em>
  <span> more manhandling and pain then Will would have expected. That’s his own mistake, for romanticizing the past— which is just what Rosa’s doing, right now— insisting that Frederick will be different. Will suspects her mother knows better than she does. Will believes in ghosts more than the next person— he has no idea </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>he knows what people will do, no idea why his brain works the way it does. Spirit magic is insane, sure, but in this case, </span>
  <em>
    <span>seeing</span>
  </em>
  <span> ghosts makes a pretty convincing argument for </span>
  <em>
    <span>believing</span>
  </em>
  <span> in ghosts. So sure, he’ll buy that Rosa’s spirit sent him this dream. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rosa sure isn’t worried about ghosts— she’s reaching the top of the staircase, and Frederick comes up behind her on the landing. He’s been talking for a while, Will realizes, and Rosa hasn’t been listening to a word. Frederick hasn’t noticed. His hand settles possessively on her lower back— Will can feel the shiver that goes through her. Frederick turns his head towards her and tells her his bedroom is down the left-hand corridor— </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“The second door to the right,” he says, in a hushed voice, next to her ear.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>She nods— it’s a little shaky. Frederick, relatively gently, steers her towards the door. When they reach it, he turns her towards him and braces her back against the door. Frederick’s breath smells like whiskey, and Will, from somewhere above and within this scene, decides he doesn’t want to see how it plays out. He tries to wake up— he’s done it before, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t want to see this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Will can figure out pretty well </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span> her ghost (because what else could this be, but a pissed off ghost telling him to bring back her bracelet) would want him to see what she </span>
  <em>
    <span>paid</span>
  </em>
  <span> for those diamonds, but Will’s alright with being a bad person if he doesn’t have to see this woman’s marital rape. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When struggling upwards, against her, doesn’t work, Will holds his breath— and comes awake gasping for air. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sits in bed, blinking in the moonlight, and cries again. Will’s always tried to be the suffer-in-silence type, but he tries to reason that he’s drunk— and he’s had </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> the fucking day. He’s gonna have to go to work in the afternoon, too. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He mouths ‘I’m sorry,’ and feels really stupid before he gets up to wash his face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will doesn’t turn on any lights, just feels his way down the hallway, into the bathroom, then to the sink. There’s moonlight streaming through the bathroom window, and in the mirror, Will looks half like a ghost himself. He washes his face with cold water, then does it a few more times, until his hands are nice and chilly, and he can hold them over his eyes. They’re swollen— Will resists the urge to rub them. Instead, he splashes his eyes with water a few times and stumbles back to his room without drying off. Will realizes he’s still wearing his towels when he gets back to his bed, and with the moonlight so bright, he figures he can take ten seconds to put some boxers on. The towels go into the frankly overflowing hamper that Will needs to take care of, and he pulls on an old, worn pair of boxers before he gets back into bed. His sheets are a little wet— although he can’t tell if it’s from sweat or the wet towels.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s still comfortable enough that he falls right asleep again— although he almost doesn’t want to.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The next morning, Will’s dad makes him hotcakes with the last of the batter he keeps in a jar in a fridge. “It’s a special occasion,” he says, and won’t take no for an answer, not that Will tries very hard. They eat them with butter and a little bit of brown sugar— instead of syrup. Then his dad packs up the bracelet, and the deed to the Chilton land in an old, not-too-worn briefcase Will didn’t know he had. Will walks out with him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Be careful, alright? Don’t rush into anything trying to get it over with quickly— people who run pawnshops can smell desperation.” Will tells him. His dad laughs at him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your old man can take care of himself, Willy. Get on to work— I’ll have dinner sittin’ on the table when you come back.” His dad grins and pulls himself up into his old ford. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span>Will waves him off until he can’t see the tires kicking up dirt anymore, then goes back in the house. He still has a clean Bloom’s t-shirt and a pair of jeans that will pass crowd inspection. Bev’s told him, a few times, that women come to ogle him at work, and they grumble</span> <span>when he “looks shabby.” Will isn’t brave enough to look those women in the eye to confirm or deny, so he just wears tighter jeans as much as he can. His tips are pretty decent for a recession, so maybe she’s right— Will’s never thought he was bad to look at, anyways. It’s what’s on the inside that scares people off, and he knows it.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He waits to put his boots on until he leaves and goes to get his water bottle from the cabinet, followed by his keys and his wallet. Then Will laces up his boots and goes and gets in his car. It’s an old sedan, pretty beat up, but the seats beat out his couch for ‘most comfortable thing Will Graham owns.’ Will’s gotten attached to the car, now. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t so much purr as rumble as he drives down the long dirt driveway. Will flicks on the radio and tries to find somethin’ that comes through the trees— all he gets is the station the cooks listen to at work. It’s not bad— but Will wouldn’t go out of his way to listen to it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There are a few songs he hums along to, but nothing he knows the words to. There’s a massive sign in the library lawn for their annual book sale. Will makes a little mental note to write the date down on their fridge calendar. The rest of the ride down to the bar is pretty dull— once he gets past the center of Bon Temps, the drive takes him down a long, winding road surrounded on all sides by wilderness.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The ‘Bloom’s Bar and Grill’ sign is still off when he gets there, but Alana’s lights are already out in her little cottage, and Brian and Jimmy’s cars are in the back lot. Cassie and Marissa are smoking by the front door, and Will waves to them before disappearing behind the building. He parks next to Cassie’s car, turns the ignition off, and stashes his keys in his pocket before he jogs up to the back door. The air is hot and heavy, even this early— when Will opens the back door to the bar, the airconditioning hits him dead in the face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He heads into Alana’s office, grabs his apron from the shelf, and ties it on while he shoulders back out into the hallway. Jimmy and Brian are doing prep work in the kitchen—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Will, what’d you do to your hand?” Brian asks him— privately, Will can admit he likes Jimmy more. He never gives Will the fifth degree. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Accident with an open boat motor. Not the first time— probably won’t be the last,” Will says, with an awkward chuckle. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Bummer. Hey, did you hear about the girl who works at the gas station?” Brian’s from up north somewhere— Delaware, maybe? His accent’s sharp— Will would like to say he </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> cringe when he talks, just… maybe flinches a little. Brian’s a nice enough guy, good at his job, but he’s a gossip, and Will gets the feeling </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> been the story more than once— probably a good quarter of the time. It makes him a little antsy— even if it’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>malicious</span>
  </em>
  <span> per se, Will doesn’t fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Which one?” Will asks.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Elsie—“</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Elise,” Jimmy chimes in, looking up from his onion. “Hey, Will.” He gives him a little wave. Will gives him one back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, Elise,” Brian presses on, unperturbed, “the girl who works the day shift. She didn’t show up for work yesterday morning, didn’t call, or anything— her boss went over to her place to check up on her, and found her strangled to death, totally naked. I heard something about a rape kit, but Sheriff Crawford chased everybody off before they brought the body out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> wince— Brian’s particularly shameless about these kinds of things. He gets bored— likes to have something to poke at. Unfortunately, his grisly delight at having something new and fucked up to talk about is reaching its’ little fingers towards Will’s brain. He has to shake his head to get rid of Jack Crawford’s booming voice. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will tries to save face— “No,” he says, like he was shaking his head at what Brian </span>
  <em>
    <span>said</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “I haven’t heard a thing about it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jimmy laughs. “Don’t worry, Brian’s on the case, Will. Everyone in Renard parish will know by tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will shifts a little uncomfortably— should </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> laugh? It feels wrong— pissy Brian isn’t something Will wants to see this early in the morning. He shrugs awkwardly, instead. “Well, I’m gonna get to work.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They’re already bickering again— they don’t even notice him leaving. Will heaves a sigh until he notices Alana’s watching. He’s always on tenterhooks around his boss— she’s a sweetheart, but there’s something in her eyes when she looks at Will that makes him uneasy. It’s not like Will makes eye contact with her often— he tends to look at her nose if at all possible. But it’s hard to ignore the pity in her eyes— along with something else he can’t name without plumbing her brain. Will promised himself he’d stay out of his boss’ head— and anyone else he likes. He doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know what his friends (or friendly acquaintances, more likely,) are thinking. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just terrible,” Alana says, drawing Will out of his head. “Elise was a very sweet girl— she didn’t deserve that. No one does, but especially not her. I hope Jack finds whoever did it fast.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Will says, staring at her eyebrows, “that’s not exactly the kind of thing where you want a repeat performance.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Alana gives him a sad smile. “Definitely not.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will doesn’t think about anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>but</span>
  </em>
  <span> Elise Nichols’ murder for the rest of the day, well into the night. They’re pretty short-staffed at Blooms’, with three waitstaff and two bartenders. Alana works the hardest, in first and out last— Will knows that she’s just barely getting by, so he doesn’t mind working some possibly OSHA violating shifts. Still, tuning in to everyone’s personal thoughts on Elise Nichols’ murder from 9am to 11pm </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>Will’s own personal version of </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He clocks out at 9pm with overtime, then gets one-and-a-half-overtime in cash from Alana when he heads out the back door at 11, so bone-tired he considers sleeping in his car. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you gonna be alright to drive, Will?” Alana calls out to him from the back door, just as he’s about to sit down. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he calls back, suddenly antsy to get out of there. “I’m fine!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will gets in the car and closes the door for good measure— he feels really stupid for telling Alana that when he has to navigate the parking lot. Between the headlights of cars coming in and the bar’s glaring lights, Will has a splitting migraine by the time he pulls out onto the winding road towards home. The trees shift and move in the dark, and at times Will could swear there was something following along with his car, jumping from tree to tree— like a childhood daydream, long-fingered and shapeless. Will shivers and closes the window. He doesn’t remember opening it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pays close attention all the rest of the way home, careful not to check the trees— he needs more sleep, is all. Memory robbing is hard work.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The house is dark when Will pulls down the driveway, the gravel crunching underneath his car’s wheels. When his dad hears the crunching, he flips the lights on— Will can see his silhouette through the curtains. The house calls to him, pulling him away from whatever the hell came over him on the road. Will parks, turns the engine off, and flies inside with a sudden sense of paranoia. His dad looks up, startled.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Will says, “I’m acting a little crazier than usual tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His dad frowns and steps away from the oven— it looks like he’s reheating Will’s dinner. He comes up and wraps his hands around Will’s shoulders— a hand a shoulder, and pulls him in for an awkward sort of hug. Will’s old man has never been the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hugging</span>
  </em>
  <span> type— not that he’s violent, or anything, just… emotionally stunted. It must be hereditary— Will’s not accustomed to whatever emotion it is he’s feeling.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His dad lets him go after a minute, then goes back to the stove like nothing happened. Really, nothing did happen— people hug their kids all the time. Will sits down before he falls down and moves past it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How did it go?” He asks, and his dad turns around at the stove again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, good…” He says and hums noncommittally. “Found someone who was willing to buy from me directly. For the bracelet and the house.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And?” Will asks. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“One hundred, twenty-five… thousand.” His dad says, slow, dragging out each syllable. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will doesn’t fall out of his chair— just blinks once. Twice. Three times. “A hundred and twenty-five thousand?” He asks, quiet, afraid he misheard.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“A hundred and twenty-five thousand,” his dad agrees with a nod. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Will gets up and hugs him. He can’t remember the last time he had two hugs in one day— but he needs one now. It’s… it’s too much, almost. They can pay the rent. They can eat! Hell, if they play their cards right, they might be able to buy their rental from the landlord— but that’s getting ahead of himself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you get that in writing? What’s the name of the buyer?” Will asks when he pulls away from his dad.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I did, and I don’t know. Wanted to stay anonymous— we’re going through a third-party seller. He said he’d take fifteen for handling it— leaves the rest for us, tax-free.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hey guys, how's everyone's apocalypse going? </p>
<p>you should be fairwarned i have a terrible attention span and therefore only update like once a month most of the time, then i'll write like 5+ chapters in one sitting and post all of them at once bc i have no self-control. it's not looking like a 5+ chapter kind of week, but who knows! i got to do some jewelry research for this chapter, and in case you're wondering, this is what i envision frederick buying rosa (https://www.1stdibs.com/jewelry/bracelets/link-bracelets/antique-1200-carat-diamond-link-bracelet/id-j_9001742/) which would've been worth approx. 20 grand during the recession. a house in caddott parish (where bon temps is supposed to be,) was worth somewhere between 100-120 grand at that point, so i went with 125 bc it's a nice round number. now, i didn't tag this chapter with any content warnings bc will's just assuming what happened to rosa, and this will get brought up later on, so i'm not slandering frederick here or anything. </p>
<p>HOWEVER if u read the svm books *spoiler spoiler spoiler spoiler like a big one er also a csa warning?? i just mention it but i love y'all so* </p>
<p>i want justice for sookie. fuck you for pretending bill's not a rapist alan. just bc you're horny for bill doesn't mean anyone else was. frankly by making frederick bill i gave bill a HUGE upgrade bc he's nasty. no offense to stephen moyer bc i do think he did a great job in tb but like. bill as a character is a little roach man who deserves to be squished. i know i'm a simple lesbian who wants to be in a throuple with tara and pam but c'mon. eric's right there! i will say eric should have killed bill for raping her but that's just my opinion. to be fair charlene harris clearly doesn't understand sa trauma in any way bc the way she wrote it both times was totally tactless and bizarre. she like glosses over it afterwards? it's very uncomfortable, esp given the pedophilia thing with her uncle (also i'm mad at charlene for giving me the expectation that female guardians will always cut off pedophiles to protect girls in their family. that is in fact very incorrect and while that's not really her fault so much as it was mine for reading the svm books when i was 10, i'm still mad abt it!) ANYWAY *end spoilers here. sorry i went off, i just have a lot of Feelinks. no one wants to hear my true blood hot takes irl, they're in fact begging me to stop bringing up the fact that i still like true blood*</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. before the night is through</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>His Dad shuffles over to him, stretching his whole body out as he goes— so that Will can hear every vertebra crack as they re-align— before he opens his side closet. He keeps his old shotgun in there, along with a bag of shells. He loads the shotgun and heads out into the hallway, Will trailing along behind him. </p><p>His Dad moves, low and slow, towards one of the windows. He lifts the curtain a little, looks to the left, then to the right, and pulls back. He shakes his head.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They eat dinner together, in some sort of fog— at least Will's in a fog. His Dad usually doesn't say much during dinner— he grew up in a house where you bolted your food so you could get seconds. Will keeps telling him to eat slower, but his Dad never listens to him.</p><p>He goes and takes another shower. Doesn't get drunk first, so that's an improvement. Then Will goes and puts some pajamas on, before he gets into bed with a bad mystery novel. He's read thousands of them— Will likes to try and solve them before the book tells him the answer. There are absolutely no mysteries in his life— Will can cheat anytime he wants. And sometimes, even when he doesn't. </p><p>This one is relatively new— at least for the Bon Temps library— and the pages don't have the battered ears of a worn-in book. Will kind of misses them— he's both too close to people and too far away, and he gets weirdly emotional about things like other people's fingerprints on book pages. The story's pretty good, at least— a college student brings her new boyfriend on a family skiing trip, and her dad 'falls' off of a ski-lift. So far, the cops are holding the boyfriend— the charge is basically 'being a vampire,' but the college student and her brothers aren't buying it. One of them's a private eye— which is pretty funny, all things considered. Will's pretty sure private eyes are even lower on the job list than boat mechanics.</p><p>He reads it until he gets tired— in that time, Chelsea finds some blackmail material from their Dad's mistress; Rob follows a shady character down to the basement and gets his ass kicked; Tom finds out their family firm is worth five times what he thought it was. What a problem to have. </p><p>Will puts the book back in his bedside table drawer and gets up to brush his teeth. Passing by the window, he sees that same jumping shadow, blinks twice, and goes back to stare out at the trees.</p><p>There's nothing there— no rustling in the trees at all, in fact. Maybe there is something following him. It could be a bobcat… Will cups his hand around his eyes and gets closer to the window to get a good look. He stares deep into the trees, into the dark spaces in between, where something could be moving— and something moves by the window, pitch black and shapeless. Will scrambles back from the window and lands flat on his ass. He bolts for the bathroom and locks the door firmly behind him, practically hyperventilating. </p><p>Will sits there on the floor, knees tucked up to his chest, wondering if he's really lost it this time— but if he hasn't… He gets up and unlocks the door, gingerly moves towards the window, and sees nothing. Doesn't mean anything. Will opens his bedroom door and goes down the hall to his Dad's room.</p><p>"Hey Pop?" He knocks on the door and waits impatiently for the answer.</p><p>"Come on in, Willy!" Comes his Dad's muffled voice from the other side of the door, and Will lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding.</p><p>He opens the door, slides inside, and closes it behind him. </p><p>"Hey," he says, less shaky than he thought he was going to be. </p><p>"Hey yourself," his Dad replies and mutes his old t.v. with a loud 'click—'"You doin' alright? You look like you just seen a ghost," he laughs.</p><p>Will nods, then shakes his head. "Maybe?" He says. "I saw something outside and I can't tell if it's real or not." He winces after he says it— the goal is to NOT sound crazy. "Just y'know, is it an animal, or is it a weird shadow, or…"</p><p>His Dad gets up with a long groan and plops the t.v. remote on the bed. "Alright, let's have a look. Never hurts to check— could be somebody followed me back from the city, lookin' for easy pickins." </p><p>Will nods gratefully— that sounds not insane. That sounds like a reasonable thing someone might have thought, not that the fucking shadow monster from the trees was coming to life. Yeah.</p><p>His Dad shuffles over to him, stretching his whole body out as he goes— so that Will can hear every vertebra crack as they re-align— before he opens his side closet. He keeps his old shotgun in there, along with a bag of shells. He loads the shotgun and heads out into the hallway, Will trailing along behind him. </p><p>His Dad moves, low and slow, towards one of the windows. He lifts the curtain a little, looks to the left, then to the right, and pulls back. He shakes his head. </p><p>Will opens the door— there doesn't seem to be anything there. His Dad nods at him to get out of the way and aims the barrel of the gun out the door. He looks left, then right, then left again— he does that a couple times, then pulls the gun back in and closes the door. Will locks it for him while his Dad puts the safety on the gun and unloads it. </p><p>"Could've been a gator and a trick of the light," his Dad says. </p><p>"Yeah," Will nods, but neither of them believes it— at least, Will sure doesn't. That wasn't a glance; his Dad would've seen it if it was real. By the worried look his Dad casts at him out of the corner of his eye, Will gets the feeling his Dad knows that. Just to be safe, he stares at his Dad's hairline. "Sorry I got you up for nothing," he smiles awkwardly, and his Dad pats him on the shoulder. </p><p>"'S okay, Willy. See you in the mornin'." He wanders back down the hall, but Will just stands there, staring out the window. </p><p>Distantly, he hears his Dad unloading the shotgun and putting it back into the closet. Will can't see anything outside, either, but if he stops looking, then he has to admit he didn't see anything. That maybe he did something to himself in the Chilton place— something to make his brain even more unstable than it was before.</p><p>Something moves out in the lawn, and Will's caught between pressing his face to the window and diving into bed like a scared kid. He ends up standing there like a statue, watching the dark shadow skirt the tree line until it disappears entirely. Doesn't really clear up if it was there at all.</p><p>Will turns his back to the door and feels the goosebumps go all up his spine, but he keeps walking, goes back to his room. Goes into the bathroom and brushes his teeth. He stares into the eyes of his reflection the whole time, studying his pupils— there's nothing wrong with them that he can see, but what if he can't tell? Will shakes his head— then he can't tell, and there's no use worrying about it.</p><p>He gets in bed and resists the urge to pull the blankets over his head—instead, he balls his hands into fists in the sheets, like he's going to wake up swinging. </p><p>*</p><p>Will sees the shadow in his dreams, following along after him like it belongs there. He keeps meeting people, desperately asking if they can see it— but each time, they give him the same, pained smile, and say "Are you sure you don't need some rest, Will?" Until all Will can hear is 'rest, rest, rest, rest,' on and on, even as he turns to face the shadow… The shadow has no face, just a pool of darkness, like the porthole of a boat at night— only it sucks light towards it, into it… and Will finds himself leaning closer. Closer. Closer. He tumbles forward, falling through water that looks like ink— </p><p>Will wakes up with a 'thump.' He's sitting on his ass, on the floor, next to his bed. </p><p>"Fuck," he mutters and pulls his knees up to his chest. Not a good omen for the rest of the day— but it's not like he's going back to sleep. That nightmare was particularly spiteful, he thought— followed immediately by I am not being haunted, I am being an asshole.</p><p>Will smacks himself in the face lightly and gets up— sure enough, his watch says it's quarter to 9. He's sure his Dad will be off early to get the papers signed, and Will wants to go with him. He gets up off the floor, and shakes himself out, then goes to brush his teeth and piss. He washes his hands afterward and resolutely ignores his reflection. Then he goes back into his room and gets dressed— tank top, flannel on top of that, jeans with the least grease stains. It's not like anyone's expecting him to show up in a suit— he hopes. They'll be sorely disappointed— if either he or his Dad owns a regular button-up shirt, it'd be a shock to him. He'd worry more about his bad fashion, but well. Who the hell is he trying to impress? (Will blocks out all thoughts about anyone he could be trying to impress, like his boss.) </p><p>He leaves his room, socks in hand, and wanders into the kitchen. His Dad is already fixing himself a cup of coffee for the drive— Will clears his throat.</p><p>"D'you mind if I tag along?" He asks.</p><p>"Naw, Willy, you're more than welcome. After all, you found it. You gettin' worried about me again?" His Dad teases.</p><p>Will shrugs one shoulder and says, "Well, you are getting older," to cover that, yeah, he is worried about his Dad selling shit he may or may not have stolen to some dealer in Shreveport.</p><p>His Dad laughs and pulls out another mug. "You want coffee?"</p><p>Will nods, and his Dad starts fixing him a cup— one spoonful of chicory, two spoonfuls of sugar, a splash of milk, and the rest coffee. </p><p>"There's eggs left, if you want me to make you a pocket." His Dad says, and hands over his coffee mug. Will tucks his socks in his front pocket and takes the mug.</p><p>Will takes a long draw off of his coffee, then shakes his head. "No, I'll do it. You want another one?"</p><p>His Dad laughs again and goes over to the table— it's good to see him in such a good mood. It seems like years since Will's seen him really happy. </p><p>"If you don't mind, I wouldn't say no to another one." He says.</p><p>Will grins at him— it's infectious. "No problem."</p><p>Will's not a good cook— not by any means, but their "egg pockets" aren't exactly hard to make. His Dad had started making them when he was a kid. There wasn't enough time, money, or food to make anything but scrambled eggs with barely any milk, swirled around into what was basically an all egg crêpe. Then you sprinkled in whatever else you had that went with eggs— his Dad has a bowl next to the stove with cut-up onions, cheese, and crumbled-up bacon.   </p><p>Will pours the eggs in the pan and stands there with his hand on the handle. He starts swirling them when he sees the edges start to stick to the pan and just keeps swirling. When the center starts to firm up, Will adds the filling and grabs the spatula from the counter. He flips it in half, then in half again. </p><p>"I'll wrap them up, if you wanna get going," he tells his Dad, and half-pivots himself so he can see what he says.</p><p>"Sure— we could probably stand to get going sooner rather than later. You don't wanna waste your day off doing this." His Dad says, looking up from tracing the wood-grain of the table.</p><p>Will nods, then flips the egg pouch over and leaves it to cook while he gets out the parchment paper. They don't have a lot of it, but if everything goes right, maybe they won't have to scrimp and save so bad they have to ration the parchment paper anymore.</p><p>Will rips off a piece of parchment paper, folds it in half diagonally, then goes back to the stove. He wraps the egg pocket in the parchment paper, hands it to his Dad, and repeats the whole thing.<br/>
His Dad gets up and turns on the radio— it's a nice song, for once. Something by Dolly Parton— Dumb Blonde. Will finishes up the egg pocket about the same time the song ends, then wraps it up in parchment paper while an ad for shaving cream comes on. His Dad switches off the radio with an irritated grunt, and Will cracks a smile.</p><p>"They never stop, do they?" He asks, and turns off the stove. He leaves the pan there to cool down— he'll wash it when they get back.</p><p>"Gettin' worse every year. I can remember gettin' mad at four or five ads a radio show— seems like now there's fourty-five." His Dad grumbles and sits down to put his boots on.</p><p>Will sets down his coffee and his eggs on the table, then finishes getting ready— gets his socks, boots, jacket on, and grabs his car keys. He snags his breakfast off the table and follows his Dad out the door. He locks it, and they head out— Will just has to focus on the little steps, so he doesn't spiral out into all the things that could happen. </p><p>They take his car, but his Dad insists on driving. "Eat your breakfast, Willy. You can drive us home, if you're itchin' to."</p><p>Will shrugs and climbs into the passenger's seat with a mumbled "M'k." </p><p>He sticks his coffee mug in the right cup holder, then buckles himself in while his Dad lifts himself into the car. Will unwraps his egg pocket while his Dad settles himself in and takes a big bite. It's really good— one of those childhood treats you like even better as an adult because you can eat it anywhere. His Dad puts the keys in the ignition, and the truck comes rumbling to life. His Dad lets it warm up for a minute, then shifts into reverse. The gravel pings up against the steel underbelly all the way up to the road— it's a horrible noise, with the dirt crunching underneath it. It's so loud in his Dad's truck, but he waits it out, aggressively tapping his fingers on his thigh— he doesn't want to turn on the radio yet. If they're coming into a huge chunk of money like 100 grand, Will wants to know if there's anything wrong with his Dad's truck. That'll be the first thing they spend money on— then the bills. Will doesn't wanna get much more ahead of himself than that. No use counting your chickens before they're hatched. </p><p>They pull out onto the road— Will waits for the gravel to clear from the tires and the underbelly, then listens to the truck. It doesn't sound bad, but it could probably use a tune-up, anyway. They're both good with engines, but they don't have the right equipment for cars. He flips on the radio to straight static. He turns the dial, flipping through the main 5 channels for a good song. There's really nothing great on, just the talk show hosts pranking someone, Bryan Adams, Bon Jovi, Maroon 5, and Sonny and Cher. Will leaves it on Sonny and Cher and takes another bite out of his egg pocket. </p><p>"Ugh, I hate that song," his Dad says as it ends. </p><p>"Why didn't you ask me to change it?" Will asks him.</p><p>"Well, I figured you'd just— don't matter." He coughs. "It just don't matter."</p><p>Will nods and turns his head towards the window as the next song comes on. 'I figured you'd just know.' Even his own Dad doesn't really understand how Will's brain works. He sighs quietly and opens the window. The breeze blows through the window, and he leans a little closer to let the wind blow through his hair. He forgot to brush it this morning, which probably means it's gonna be messy as hell anyway. Why not enjoy the wind— even if it does make him look like a giant golden retriever.</p><p>Will pulls his head back in a minute or so and finishes eating his egg pocket. He washes it down with a swig of coffee, then folds up the parchment paper. </p><p>His Dad clears his throat, then changes the radio station— universal dad code for 'I'm nervous and I want to talk to you, but I can't just tell you.' Will looks over at him, the hums, and starts idly folding up the piece of parchment paper as he watches the road. </p><p>"So," he says, drawly on the end, "d'you think that we're gonna have any trouble?"</p><p>His Dad shrugs one shoulder, a little awkwardly, with the way he's holding the wheel. "I dunno, Willy. Could be. I'm not too comfortable with going through someone else like this, without any protection or any anything, but what choice do we have? 'S not everyday you make a find like this."</p><p>Isn't that understatement of the century, Will thinks. He'll have the scar for years, probably. "Yeah." </p><p>That feels insufficient. "I don't know either, Dad. I wish we had a gun, but it's not like you can bring a shotgun to a negotiation."</p><p>His Dad chuckles, and relaxes his grip on the steering wheel a little.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>HEWWO i know it's been 8 months but here i am again! hope everyone's safe, healthy and u get your covid shot soon! </p><p>i DID give will my 2008 music taste and I simply shall not be taking criticisms. love and light</p>
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